Where Do You Go To, My Lovely, When You're Alone In Your Head?
by Katherine.aka.Kat
Summary: Castiel ponders the ins and outs of Dean's mind.


Dean was better with words than most people gave him credit for. Castiel had seen it more often than he could count. At funerals. Pre-end-of-the-world-battles. In anger. He did anger exceptionally well and usually some form of the truth seeped through. Yet rarely all of it.

That took more care. On Dean's part. The space given and held. To move safely within.

That much Castiel had learned over the years he'd known Sam and Dean Winchester. Only a drop of oil evaporating on a hot plate in perspective to his long, angelic life, but the effects of it lingered more than the rest of his life had. The choice he'd made for Dean and all the choices that followed after weighed heavy in the scales of the effects they'd had on the world and on each other.

He watched Dean as he cleaned his weapons, brow furrowed, mouth set in a tight line. Soon, once the routine of the job settled into his shoulders, his jaw would relax and his tongue would slide against his teeth, a soft hum escaping now and then. An occasional glance around the room and their gazes would hold for seconds, tilted out of time. Castiel held his thumb to the page of the book he was reading, but made no real effort to pretend he was.

There was an ebb and flow to Dean, as intuitive and steady as the ocean, provided one paid attention. He carried the weight of his duties, regardless of that ebb and flow, but his mind still strained under the pressure. There had been a time when he moved through the world with more of a sparkle to his eyes and a swagger to his walk. Both had left him.

Well. Mostly. Castiel allowed himself a soft smile.

Those moments had become quite rare and he could hardly fault Dean for any of it. Much like Dean did not fault him for losing his wings. There were other… issues between them, but even they would soften with time. They always did.

What was most striking in Dean's soul was the level of fatigue, the way it moved, slow like syrup. Castiel knew on an intimate level how done Dean was and how well he hid that from everyone. Except his guardian angel. He often wondered if or to which extent at least Dean was aware of how much Castiel knew and sensed. All the times when Dean's mind almost but never quite broke and Castiel was there to cushion the fall, he didn't seem to understand. Like it caught him by surprise that Castiel bothered and every time, he found himself reassuring. Never explaining. There was no explaining why he cared about Dean. Simply reassuring, reaffirming, in the hopes that this time it would stick.

When at other times, Dean relied on their bond without hesitation, leaning into it for comfort and confirmation. Sometimes recklessly assuming Castiel would toe the line, they saw eye to eye as often as they didn't, but the undercurrent habitually had to do with keeping each other out of harm's way. Or Sam.

He watched Dean's hands work. Meticulous. Focused. At ease. Scarred.

Most of Dean's scars were invisible. "Healed." Castiel had learned to read them in the subtleties of his face. His eyes. The way he held himself on certain days. How he'd shut himself off, shielding everyone else from damage. The stutter in the brightness of his soul, when the current of it took him to the darkest parts of his mind and he hid the fall-out, physically or spiritually.

As supposedly his own scars were healed, except for his wings. Something tugged at his heart in the way Dean was looking at him across the space between them, his hands stilling around the weapon parts. The quietest part of the night, Castiel sometimes questioned if he was wrong. About everything he thought he knew about Dean Winchester, about their bond. But then he remembered. Every time their eyes met. Every time they'd fought and survived, together. Every time anyone tried to use them against one another. Every time they'd hugged. Every time he felt Dean's soul.

More vivid. The time he almost killed Dean and his voice, his soul, called him back. The time all it took was one touch of Dean's hand to stop him from killing Naomi.

The click of metal sliding over metal drew him back to the present. Dean eyed the weapons on the table, as he wiped his hands, then his eyes flicked to Castiel. He stood up, rolling his shoulders a few times, and closed the distance between them. The liquid pools of his eyes told him today their routine had the desired effect for both of them.

Castiel folded his book shut and put it aside, as he rose to his feet into Dean's personal space. Also a long time ago. In the quiet of this stolen moment, Dean reached out, as Castiel reached in and their lips met.


End file.
